Once around, then up the mountain, five shots at the target, then down and into the final loop—Henry ran through the course in his mind. He gnashed his teeth, vowing to stay up all night, firing stones if he missed them all again. He would not miss. He would not fail.

Absentmindedly, his left hand toyed with the weight fastened to his right arm, causing it to clang against the one on his left. He wouldn't miss. He would break his record.

Henry allowed his eye to fall shut and inhaled, then angrily shook strands of hair that were too short to tie out of his face. He breathed in again and took position. His fists clutched the weights, and his eye flew open, meeting the suspended stone bowl to his left. His arm shot up and pulled the string that connected to the plug sealing it; sand gushed out at once, but Henry did not watch—he vaulted forward.

Henry sprinted like a hundred rats were chasing him. He paid no mind to the sand beneath his bare feet or the calm waves breaking on the beach. He was not running for the scenic view. On his mind was only one thing: the outstanding record.

When his stopwatch came into view again, he bothered not to check it; instead, he took such a sharp turn that the sand sprayed out from under his foot and bolted toward the mountain. Clenching the weights tighter, Henry found the mark he had stuck into the sand and picked up speed. By the mark, he vaulted as high as he could, latching onto a ledge some eight feet up. Layers of bandages protected his hands as he climbed, fighting the weights for every inch upward.

Henry ignored the faint phantom sting that pierced the right side of his face and wedged his foot into a crack with force, scraping his knee in the process.

He did not even flinch. Faintly, he registered a trickle of blood running down his lower leg, but he had other concerns. Records were not broken by succumbing to such minor inconveniences.

Henry climbed with no safety rope, but also with no fear. Whoever had time for fear? A ceaseless time later, he pulled himself over the final hurdle and to his feet, darting toward where he had left his slingshot.

He nearly tripped before scooping it up, cursing under his breath. The torch he had placed next to his target—a sloppily drawn white circle on black stone—crackled quietly.

Henry disregarded the sting of his knee and the gravel digging into his bare feet, raised the slingshot, and steadied his hand.

Miss.

Miss again.

Henry let out a string of curses and brought his hand up to his face. He blinked once, twice. Then raised the slingshot again.

The next stone struck the line, smudging the chalk. Henry blew out a relieved breath, then instantly reprehended himself; he could barely count that.

Miss again.

His teeth clenched so hard that it hurt. He rubbed his eye aggressively, not even giving the tears a chance.

His last shot was a hit, although Henry inadvertently wondered how much luck was involved. Crossly, he stuffed the slingshot into his belt; two out of five was about average . . . if he decided to count the third one.

He should not count it. With one pull, Henry extinguished the torch and leaped toward the edge.

The initial stretch of the descent was incredibly steep. Henry often found himself hanging precariously from a ledge, gripping onto it with just one hand. Nonetheless, he had no fear. Heights didn't scare him anymore, not like they had after the fall. Not for as long as he had a bond who would not let him fall.

For a moment, Henry allowed in the thought of where Thanatos was; he had not seen him since morning. If he were not here, who would catch him if he fell now?

In the next moment, he scolded himself. He was through with falling in general. He would not fall, so he needed no one to catch him.

Irritated, he chased away the pecking thoughts and focused on his climb. Ledge by ledge, foot by foot, he descended, and only a minute later, the ground came into reach. Henry leaped the last ten or so feet, rolling off and scrambling up, not even regarding his stopwatch.

Home stretch.

Without bothering to catch his breath, Henry lunged forward, entering his familiar track. He did not mind the burning of his lungs or the heaviness of his legs; he ran. Nobody was pursuing him, but Henry imagined that someone was.

This thought chased him around the island and back toward his ever-elusive stopwatch. When it came into view, he mobilized the last energy reserves he possessed and even managed to pick up speed so that he nearly ran the stone bowl over. He dropped on the sand beside it and shut the hole with his hand before reaching for the plug.

Heavily panting, Henry lay in the sand. His vision blurred, and his sore muscles wailed. Only gradually did he recover enough strength to untie the weights around his wrists. Lying with the cool sand against his burning face, Henry thought he should rise and check his time, but he could not move.

"You may kill yourself prematurely if you keep pushing so hard."

Henry did not even flinch when the voice spoke on his right. If he moved now, his body would split apart.

"I am serious," said Thanatos. From where he lay, Henry could not see him until the flier had come up right beside him. "I do not understand why you are straining yourself so," he said. "What gain are you reaping from—"

"Be still," hissed Henry between gritted teeth. Disregarding Thanatos' outstretched claw, he pulled himself up on his own. "It will not kill me," he amended. "And if I am to be stuck here, I have to occupy myself . . . so I have picked an occupation that may at least give me the illusion of success. Is that so hard to understand?"

Thanatos stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment, then finally tossed a dead fish at him.

"Is it already time for dinner?" asked Henry.

"Don't tell me you have been exercising this entire time." Thanatos stared at him accusingly.

"It's not like I had anything better to do." As Henry finally peered over the edge of the bowl, he made a face. "This is not a record." He slapped the bowl with his flat hand so that it swayed. "I ought to get better."

"Do you not use less and less sand for that?"

"Because I ought to get better!" exclaimed Henry.

Thanatos watched silently as Henry slipped back into his shirt and set up a fireplace to cook dinner. Only when two of the four fish he had caught sizzled on the grill did he raise his voice again. "Henry," he said, looking around. "Please be honest—how is this helping you?"

Henry froze, about to poke one of the fish with a bone. "It's exercise," he replied curtly. "How could it not be helping?" It wasn't helping. He pressed his lips together tightly, admitting it to himself, at least. It was not helping . . . with the real issue. It was . . . supposed to make him feel better. He did not allow himself to contemplate whether it really did.

Henry barely recalled their first few weeks on the island; he'd been in nigh-constant pain, barely able to get up or take care of himself. And this notion—to be helpless in such a manner—had driven him nearly insane. So, ever since he'd felt strong enough for it, he had immediately picked up a rigorous workout routine: standard sit-ups, push-ups, stretching, and gymnastic exercises every morning and evening, along with this parkour for whenever he felt like it in between.

Thanatos had claimed it was bad for him to exert himself physically so soon after such an injury, but Henry didn't let himself be stopped. Working out enhanced his overall shape, which gave him the illusion of improving his condition . . . a condition that could no longer be genuinely improved. Henry gritted his teeth against that thought. Yes, his injury had healed; it hadn't really hurt in weeks. But the pain was not the issue. His gaze flew to the entrance to their cave, and he envisioned his tally.

Day twenty, when he had run out of space below and had to continue above.

Day forty-five, when he had run out of space on the right and had to continue left.

Sixty. Henry thought about tomorrow and being compelled to draw the . . . sixtieth mark.

"This . . . will end in a debate about how long we must still stay here, no?"

Henry looked back at Thanatos defiantly, then plucked his fish off the grill. "I do not understand why we are still here," he said. "Your wing healed ages ago, and I am no longer in need of recovery." He flicked his right temple. "This is as good as it gets."

"I am reluctant to leave," said Thanatos as he lay down beside Henry, "because you will be killed by the first enemy you encounter out there. This island is . . ." He hesitated. "Safe."

Henry flinched. The flier had uttered this word so much in recent times that he thought he might go insane if he had to hear it one more time. "I am sick of "safe"," said Henry, digging his fist into the sand. He tried not to have the flier's words repeat in his head. Killed by the first enemy you encounter. Henry gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to cover his ears with his hands and scream. Pictures of Goldfang's corpse flashed before his inner eye—pictures of a cave full of ferocious wasps—a Tankard overflowing with enraged serpents.

"So, am I just supposed to sit here for the rest of my life?" he hissed, springing to his feet. "Don't you get it? It's not getting better!"

Henry ran until his legs gave way and he collapsed in ankle-deep water. It gently flowed around him, but it could not soothe his rage. He thought it was a little like back during his first month in exile . . . except worse. Because he could not do anything. He could not challenge or throw himself at exile to become successful. He could not even jump over his shadow and ask for help because the hurdle he was facing was insurmountable.

At this rate, he would really become forgotten, Henry thought. Even the crawlers may soon cease telling tales of him because he could no longer live up to their image of him. Because he had been pining here for sixty days . . . and nothing had changed. He had accomplished nothing . . . He could not accomplish anything for as long as he was here. Could he accomplish anything meaningful ever again?

Henry dug his fingers into the sand violently so as not to raise them and claw his other eye out too. At least then, he would no longer have to look at the pathetic shadow of his former self—of the successful outcast—that he had become. His body trembled with such intensity that he struggled to keep it in check.

He would find a solution. His own thought almost made Henry snort with laughter. His hand rose to cup the right side of his face; what had remained of his vision blurred, and something wet trickled down his cheek. There was no solution.

The sensation of scarred flesh was still unfamiliar; the tissue was sensitive, but it had healed well. Perhaps it would have been better had it not healed at all.

"Henry . . ."

He didn't look up when Thanatos spoke behind him. He didn't want the flier to see him cry; he had seen him whine enough back when the eye had still hurt. He didn't want anyone to see him cry.

"I know you don't want to spend the rest of your life here," said Thanatos hesitantly. "But I urge you to be reasonable."

Henry said nothing. If he said something, his voice would break.

"Remember we once spoke of living with and without reason?"

"But you do not let me search!"

Thanatos jumped when Henry whipped around toward him. He did not meet the flier's eyes; instead, he fell backward until he lay in the shallow water. It gently swayed around the outskirts of his hair, and he shut his eye as tightly as he could.

"Henry, are you crying?"

Henry said nothing. He suppressed the urge to raise his hand and wipe his eye.

"You . . . It is not true," said Thanatos, and when Henry gingerly opened his eye, the flier hovered above him. "Searching doesn't always equal being out there in danger. Searching means that you dedicate a portion of your life to preparing for what's to come. What even have you done so far to try and improve your fighting skills?"

Henry averted his gaze. "I cannot do anything," he said tonelessly.

"There is always something," said Thanatos, and suddenly, those words infuriated Henry. "Is that not what you once said?"

"Shut up."

"You said," the flier ignored him, "that everything can be made into an opportunity."

"Shut up!"

"I will not shut up," said Thanatos resolutely. "You did not shut up when I told you to leave me to my pining, and neither will I. Henry, you cannot tell me that this is all it takes to drain your infinitely blazing spirit!"

Henry said nothing. He knew the flier was right—that his younger self would laugh at him if he could see him now. His younger self, who had managed to turn exile into an opportunity. His younger self . . . whom he could no longer be. The fact that he felt bottomless shame for it did not change the fact that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not reignite that fire within himself anymore.

Thanatos was right; he knew this perfectly well. I always have spirit, he thought. I am the one who has spirit. I am the one who will be successful.

Then and there, Henry allowed himself to acknowledge that he didn't feel like any of those things anymore. He hadn't since he had come here. His hands clenched until it hurt. How had he ever allowed himself to become this pathetic?

"You announced that you would find a solution."

"I said shut up!" Thanatos actually flinched back when Henry jerked up, yelling. All the flier had ever done was tell him things that he already knew. "I know that I am a pathetic failure; I do not need you to tell me this as well!" he screamed. His mouth opened, but the request for encouragement lodged in his throat. He would not ask for something that he didn't deserve.

"That . . . is not what I meant," said Thanatos, aghast. "I am trying to help."

"Well, you suck at it!"

For a moment, they held each other's gaze. When he could no longer stand the thought of the flier seeing his tear-stained face, Henry shook his head until sand flew out of his hair and whipped away. "Fine," he forced himself to say. "Tell me, then, what is your oh-so-great suggestion?"

"My oh-so-great suggestion," said Thanatos after a pause, "is that you cease beating yourself up over this issue emotionally. It is not an emotional issue; it is a technical one. You have not touched your sword once since we came here. Why is that?"

Because if he touched it, he could no longer run from the fact that he really was not an excellent warrior anymore, Henry thought.

"What are you so afraid of?"

"I am not afraid!"

"You are."

He was, thought Henry. He was terrified out of his mind.

"No one will judge or belittle you."

"I do not need others for that."

"Henry!" exclaimed Thanatos. "Do you not see that you have trapped yourself in a cycle? You are too scared of being a failure to work on feeling less like one."

Of course, Henry knew that.

"This solution," Thanatos continued, "will not fall into your lap. You get nothing for free in life, or at least, not anymore. I thought you had already learned to work for your gains."

For a fraction of a second, Henry was tempted to curl into Thanatos' wing and cry harder than he had ever let himself cry since his awakening on the rat pile, the day he had fallen. To pretend that he was a child in need of care and comfort because, no matter how much he hated it . . . he felt like one. This notion alone made him feel more shame than all his failures on this island combined.

He blew out a breath, hating that it sounded like a sob. He wanted to deny it, but he could no longer—he just wanted to be held. To be reassured and told all those things he didn't think he deserved to hear. Just for a moment, a split second, Henry wanted not to be strong. But he stayed exactly where he was.

"I know you hate this island," said Thanatos in a more soothing voice. "I know you hate being trapped here, and I know you feel like you're good for nothing again. But I also know that the Henry I have gotten to know never once allowed life to beat him down. The Henry I have taken in, fought, and . . . been a unit with for so long will not stay down. He is the most hopeless optimist I know. He is the one who told me that every consequence can be an opportunity. Is it not so?"

"What about the Henry you bonded to?"

Thanatos flinched, and Henry's chest tightened with unease that he had left that one out.

"That is . . . is what I meant," said Thanatos after a moment. "Unit, bond, are they not the same in our case?"

"They are not," cried Henry. "But that is not the point right now." It's never been the point for you, he thought. He didn't bother counting the times the flier had attempted to play this down in one way or another anymore. And he had never explained why. Henry didn't care if it changed much or not. He wanted . . . He blew out another breath. Reassurance. The word was unbearably sour all of a sudden.

"Your life is not over," said Thanatos soothingly.

"Then why do you trap me here?"

"Because you are not ready yet!"

"Since when is that your decision?"

"It is my decision," said Thanatos with more emphasis, "because I have bound my life to yours. I will protect you . . . even from yourself."

Henry glared at him, but he had no response to that.

"Please," urged the flier. "Do not treat your life as though it is over. It is not over. You are not done yet. All you must do is break out of this cycle, and you will find that you are not done yet."

Henry groaned. He knew Thanatos was right and that he had to get himself together eventually. He just . . . didn't know how. He was trapped, but not by Thanatos or by this island—by his own mind. By his cycle of exercise, of pointless meddling, and going back to sleep.

"Have you ever considered learning to fight without your eyes altogether?"

"And how would that work?"

Thanatos shook his head. "There have been people who have either lost or been born without their eyesight and still been skilled warriors."

"After how many years of practice?"

"Henry, you have to start somewhere!"

"If you think I will rot away on this island for the next decade, I have bonded to a fool!" yelled Henry, springing to his feet. He kicked up a swell of water but nearly tripped. "I hate it!" he screamed. "I hate it! Hate it! I . . . don't want to . . ." To his horror, he sobbed. He wiped his face crossly, and yet the tears kept rising.

"Let . . . let us go to sleep," said Thanatos after a while. "Come, maybe we can find a solution tomorrow."

Henry shot him a furious glare. But when he found the flier looking more helpless than he had in ages, he didn't say anything. He thought they both knew there wouldn't be a solution tomorrow, but what would it change if he continued to whine about it?

Biting back the nigh-unbearable shame about how miserably he had allowed himself to act, Henry trotted out of the water. "You're right," he said. And after another silent eternity: "Forgive me."

"Don't apologize."

But he felt like apologizing. If he apologized, it would alleviate some of the shame. Sometimes he thought he was moments from caving under the heavy load of shame that he carried around with himself constantly in recent times.

Suddenly, he could not wait to get to bed. If he slept, he could be free from the shame for a while. He could be free . . . from everything.

"Don't forget to change out of the wet clothes." Thanatos lifted off behind him. "I'll be ahead."

Henry watched him disappear into the entrance of their cave, feeling a sudden pang of jealousy. His wing had healed well—if one didn't look too close, even the artificial tissue was barely noticeable—whereas Henry's own injury would never be unnoticeable.

Thanatos was not trapped—not on the island and not in his own mind. He could go wherever he pleased. With one swift move, Henry extinguished his torch and packed it away. Thanatos could freely fly over the water, even to the mainland, if he wanted. As he had . . . done?

All of a sudden, Henry made himself aware that he had spent a lot of time out somewhere in recent times. He recalled hours of prolonged absence, even today. He narrowed his eye at the cave entrance—what was Thanatos actually doing during that time?

Having fun without me, probably, Henry thought and scoffed, gathering up his scattered belongings. Being glad he isn't confined here like me.

At the same moment as the thoughts occurred, he scolded himself for his lack of faith. Thanatos wasn't one to do things like that behind his back. The flier was honest—so much more honest than anyone had ever been to his face. It was his favorite thing about Thanatos and what made their bond so easy.

His bond, thought Henry. Who had not ever told him about what he had been doing, even less invited him to come along for a few hours of flying. Thanatos knew how much he relished flying, did he not? Maybe he would feel less miserable if he could just fly.

Henry paused momentarily, then told himself that he might as well ask. There had to be a reasonable explanation. That, or he wants time away from me, occurred to Henry without his consent. Listlessly, he picked up the sword that he had stuck into the sand next to the cave. If he left his hand hanging limp, he could not even see the blade anymore with his narrower field of vision.

Time away from . . . The sword nearly slipped from Henry's hand. Where had he even gotten that from?

I just feel like . . . some time away from him would do me good sometimes, you know? A cold shiver slithered down Henry's spine as he recalled Ares' words to Aurora that he had overheard a few months before his exile. But am I not overstepping in wishing for something such as this? We are bonds, after all.

Bonds. They had been . . . bonds.

Henry narrowed his eye at the dark cave entrance. Even the memory of Ares' words cut like a stab—he hadn't understood at the time. Why would his own bond need time away from him? And he still didn't understand. Aurora never asked for time away from Luxa either.

Then and there, Henry banned the nagging doubts. This was ridiculous. Thanatos sometimes disappeared for a few hours—and so what? Yes, he hadn't told Henry what he was doing, but it was utterly unfair to assume he did what Ares had wanted. Comparing the two in any capacity was absurd. He and Ares had never been the way he and Thanatos were. Not like the half-assed excuse for a friendship that had ended in mutual betrayal between him and Ares.

It was a . . . bond, was it not? This time, it was. He would not allow it to be any other way ever again.